Consumat
by BurdenedWithGloriousMoustache
Summary: After the loss of his best friend, John moves to America to seek out a new life. He's referred to a new psychiatrist, one Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Sherlock follows John and discovers the malicious truth behind the good doctor. Will he save John before it's too late? (M for later chapters)
1. Chapter 1

_Tick tick tick_

John stared up at the clock on the wall of the waiting room.

_I wonder if all our appointments are going to start late, _he thought to himself. But as eager as he was to meet Dr. Lecter, John was glad to have a little extra time to himself before the appointment. Switching psychiatrists can be hard. You grow accustomed to them. You spill your life secrets and troubles to them in confidence. Having to start over with someone new was nerve wracking to say the least.

John let out a sigh. Ten minutes late already. Maybe this Dr. Lecter wasn't as good as his previous psychiatrist had led him to believe. He was referred to the doctor when he deiced to move to the states after the _incident. _He wasn't sure what he would find in America. He was just looking for a new beginning.

A sad smile spread on John's lips.

_A new beginning? When he left, I was living a repetitive boring life in London. And here I am living a repetitive boring life in America…_

Lost in his thoughts, John hadn't noticed the door to the waiting room open.

"Dr. Watson?"

John looked up at the sound of the thick Lithuanian accent. Holding the door open was a tall very well dressed man.

"I apologize for the wait. It was very rude of me," said the man.

John stood up and extended a hand.

"No apology needed, Dr. Lecter. And you can call me John. I stopped practicing a while ago," he said.

The psychiatrist shook his hand and gave a small nod of understanding.

"Well, John, being new to the area I don't know if you've read the papers then," said the doctor.

"About the Chesapeake Ripper? I thought I saw your name in there somewhere," replied John.

Hannibal led the shorter man into his office.

"I've been busy with the investigation," he said calmly, "thus the lack of punctuality of your appointment today, for which I do deeply apologize."

He gestured to two chairs sitting across from each other.

"Please take a seat and we can begin."

John sat down and looked around the room. It was extravagant and the high class décor was noticeably reflected in the man that sat before him.

"Now, I've read through your paperwork and have acquainted myself with your military history. You've had problems in the past with post-traumatic stress after your service. The nightmares have come back but they aren't military related. Why are you here to see me today John?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"My best friend…" he said, voice slightly shaky, "Sherlock Holmes…is dead."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock took a deep drag from the cigarette held in his hand. Slowly he exhaled, watching the smoke billow around him. He'd started up again when he left London.

_One good thing about faking my own death,_ he thought to himself,_ no John to nag me about my smoking._

He frowned at the thought. It had only been a year and he was missing his flat mate now more than ever. When he was in Europe he could keep better tabs on him, but here he was an ocean away.

He flicked the butt off the tall hotel balcony and stared down at the nighttime lights of the city. He reached up and ran his fingers through his now short red hair.

_How long will I be stuck in the god forsaken city?_

After the fall, the detective had made it his goal to tear apart Moriarty's web and one by one he cut the threads.

His current target was one Sebastian Moran. The sniper had led him to the states, New York more specifically, and after 4 months of tracking the man he seemed to vanish into thin air. He wasn't dead, no he couldn't be. The underground networks would have gotten news to Sherlock if he was. He was in hiding and it could take weeks to possibly even years for him to be back on the radar. All Sherlock had to do was wait, which was something the detective was not very fond of.

_Knock knock_

Sherlock tied his robe shut and walked to answer the door. A stout man in hotel uniform stood in the hallway outside.

"Mr. Palmer," he said, extending out a white envelope he held in his hands, "This just arrived for you from London."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. He shut the door and sat at the small desk in the corner of his hotel room. He opened the letter.

_I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen. John's moved away. He's in Boston, and I thought I should let you know._

_Ms. Hooper_

Sherlock slammed a fist on the table. John was the safest in London. Why did he leave? He let out a sigh. Boston?

Sherlock opened his laptop and typed the city's name into the search engine. The first thing to show up was a news article, _Chesapeake Ripper Strikes Again._

Intrigued, he opened the site and read the story.

_Serial murder and cannibalism…_ he thought, _perhaps I've found some way to occupy my time until Moran resurfaces._


End file.
